


All Moments Pass

by Attaining



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8.02, Anal Fingering, Canon Compliant, Castration, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingering, Healing Sex, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Missing Scene, Past Rape/Non-con, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostate Massage, Romance, spoilers season 8, survival sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 06:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18867532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attaining/pseuds/Attaining
Summary: Sansa asks Theon to her chambers on the night before The Great Battle of Winterfell.Missing scene 8.02, canon compliant. Theonsa porn with feelings. Spoilers.





	All Moments Pass

**Author's Note:**

> I always imagined Theon and Sansa as a slowburn, but Theon and Sansa deserved some healing from their experiences with sexual assault, and the show chose not to include that. Bring on the porn with feelings!
> 
> I proofread twice, but migraine brain makes for bad typing checks. Very sorry for any errors. And redundant adjectives. Whew this must be the longest sex scene I’ve ever written.

He followed her dutifully to her chambers, glancing at her with his head bowed, watching her, waiting. He started, “Sansa…”

“I’m not having you stay in a tent on what could be our last night alive,” she interrupted, stepping in front of him, too close for what was proper. She half expected him to step away, but he was motionless. Sansa said again, “It could be our last night alive.”

His eyes were deep and dark with the burdens he carried, but he met her gaze. Theon wore his pain tighter than armor. He shook just so, closing his eyes and swallowing. Though he was humbled, he was no fool. He did not see her as the little bird she once was. He did not see her as the bitter, broken in dame they believed her to be. He knew the truth of her, when everything else had been stripped away. His lip quavered, “I’m not… he took things, Sansa.”

“Did he take your tongue? Did he leave you fingers yet to use?” she asked him, pressing in close, her breath against his cheek. She trembled as he did, terror building in her belly, but a need arose in her so strong and deep to know him...

She heard his breath quicken. His voice was strained, low. “You deserve--”

“I deserve to choose,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his. Her fingers traced his jaw and slid into his salt heavy hair.

Her heart swelled with the rise of his sea storm eyes. Theon did not look away as his hands glided to her waist, pulling her flush against him. She knew, by the gods, she knew that he too deserved to choose. His voice was hoarse, “If you’ll have me, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa pressed her lips gentle to his in a chaste kiss. She brushed a lock of hair from his brow and smiled at him. She admitted what she could tell no one else, “I’m frightened.”

“You’ll be safe,” he assured her, holding her closely. “I’m frightened, too. I’m trembling.”

“I know that I’ll be safe, with you here,” she told him, unfastening his breastplate. He stiffened, blinking hard. Sansa asked, “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. He let her undress him, piece by piece, leather and metal falling to the floor. It was not the impassioned tearing away of clothing she had imagined as a girl, but it was more intimate than anything she had ever done with another. It was slow, methodical, so aware of how easily startled the other was. He wore his undershirt and gloves. Sansa pulled off one, then the other. Theon glanced away from her. “I’m sorry. I look...”

Wordlessly, she loosened his neckline and pulled his shirt over his head. She could not hide the horror on her face when she saw his skin. Sansa remembered summer days, sweat shining on his lean muscle after he trained with her brothers. His eyes were so full of mischief, so full of promises of forbidden moments in dark corners of the yard. No longer. She gently ran her fingers along the scars of his chest, terrifying cuts of the knife, wide strips of flesh peeled. Her body knew those wounds. She had felt them; felt them now as her breasts ached from flesh tearing on tooth, her stomach contracted from muscle exposed to air.

He must have noticed the way she shook, so he lifted her chin with soft fingers and met her lips. She sighed into his kiss, opening to him. She had never done this before. Not the awkward pressing of lips she endured from Lord Baelish, nor the violent teeth of Ramsay. She had never kissed a man because she wanted to. His tongue was hesitant but held the promise of experience as she swirled her own round his, soft and tangy with ale. _He smells of salt and leather,_ she thought, head dizzy with the scent of him, the taste of him. He had been so small as Ramsay’s slave, but he felt every bit the knight she dreamt as a girl. She felt clumsy, uncertain, but he said nothing to instruct nor dissuade her. She became more insistent, clinging to him, a laugh she could not let escape roiling in her belly. It was freeing, to capture a man so, to feel her skin tingle as he leaned warm against her.

His hands slowly removed her cloak, untied the laces at her bust. She did not feel fear, but the nervousness of anticipation and uncertainty. She knew, of course, she _knew_ how this worked, but she had never wanted it the way she thought she did now. Some part of her felt detached, desperate not to remember those other times. He parted from their kiss, leaving her flushed and hot. He asked, half afraid himself, “Do you want this? I… I don’t have the passions of a man any longer, but I… for you, I would. I would want to--”

She shut him up with a kiss, her hands cradling his head as they had once long ago. Even now he was self-deprecating. She said breathlessly, “Touch me. Please me. I heard them, the kitchen maids, how they talked about you. They said you pleased them like no other had. They said they peaked when their husbands left them lonely. I know… I know, it’s different, it’s all… but can you… can you do this for me? I don’t want to die with Ramsay Bolton as the only man to have touched me.”

He searched her eyes before emotion overcame him and he looked to the side. He breathed deep, to steady himself.

“I will let down your dress, and I will kiss every mark he made. I will draw my fingers inside you as carefully as I draw the bow, and I will not hurt you,” he said evenly. He walked the dress down her body, knowing her so intimately from the many days Theon was her only handmaiden. He had bathed her, washed the blood from _his_ bites and the filth from her legs. He already knew each time she bled, each scar she bore. And now she would know him.

She stepped from her dress, her small clothes slipping into the growing puddle of cloth next her feet. Theon stopped her hands from unlacing his breeches, softly, with care. _‘e’s bigger than a bloody stallion, I tell you, but I rode ‘im just as well!_ she used to hear them say. He undid them himself and with three long breaths, he freed his legs from his breeches. She could not stop herself from looking. The scar was jagged and large, worse than any image she could conjure in her mind. He looked nothing like Ramsay had there. He had no cock hanging or otherwise, nor purse of jewels. He looked more like she did between her legs, a healed mound peppered with dark curls, a small nub where his manhood used to be.

“If you have changed your mind…” he says slowly, ashamed, his eyes somewhere far away. She touched his cheek gently and returned his eyes to hers. She kissed him slowly and brought his hand to the scars along her belly.

“It has to be you,” she whispered against his lips. “Only you.”

His breath hitched, “Sansa. _Sansa.”_

She did not judge him his tears, for she felt her own struggling to rise. He kissed her differently then, in a way that caused her to moan against him. His tongue claimed her mouth, her lips swelling as he devoured her. His hands, calloused and rough from a ship’s rope and a bow’s string, travelled her body from hip to back. Sansa shivered, feeling a heat spread throughout her, as though winter had not come. She sighed, moaned and wanted. Gods how she wanted. She could feel herself wet between her legs as her breasts pressed against his chest, his hands cupping the curve of her behind, squeezing, kneading. Her fingers lost themselves in his hair, tugging and scratching as he kissed behind her ear and down her neck.

“Sansa,” he said again and she moaned his name in return. _Theon._ At that, he parted, a hand at her cheek. He was panting, his eyes smoldering with want. _And he said he has no passion._

He eased her toward the bed and allowed her legs to buckle as she sat. He lowered, licking and kissing down her neck and shoulder. His hand fell to her breast, lifting its weight and kneading it so delicately. She gasped as his hot mouth fell over her nipple, his tongue flat against her pink bud, lapping at it, teasing its tip with his teeth. _Gods, he is gentle._

As he switched his attentions to her other breast, his hands snuck below to caress her thighs. They walked and ghosted over her tender flesh and grazed lightly her curls. She felt her body react before her mind did. She became still, frozen. And for a moment, she forgot where she was.

“You’re safe, Sansa,” he whispered, his hands now on her face. “I’ll never hurt you. I swear it. He’s dead, you killed him. He is not here.”

Sansa swallowed and nodded. Theon got to his knees, looking up at her with concern and adoration. This felt better, without him over her, where she could see what he did. She said, her voice wavering, “Kiss me there.”

So he did. He kneaded her thighs in soothing motions and buried his nose in the joint of her leg. With a slight gasp, she shifted forward to the edge, to give him better access to her folds. She felt so lewd to be wet there. Sansa cried out then, for a soft warmth touched her cunny, his breath tickling her. Her whole body shuddered in pleasure as his tongue dipped lower, parting her and licking from her entrance to top. Wide, flat strokes, long and slow. He lifted her taste and began to swirl a part of her that jumped at his touch. The tip of his tongue flicked her gentle and quick, where her folds met and hid a small nub of her own. Much smaller, of course, she had only shyly touched it once as a girl preparing to wed Tyrion, in her bath. Her embarrassment overcame her and she stopped before she peaked. It had felt wicked, and it had felt good--much as it did now.

A desperate noise left her throat as his tongue flattened again, pulsing heavy pressure against that spot. Her nails were too hard against his scalp, but she thought she might die if she did not have him to hold. “I...inside… can you?”

She swore she felt him smirk against her before his tongue slid down and _in._ He dipped into her wetness, searching for her honey. Then, he pulled back just so, kissing her inner thigh. He slipped two fingers into his mouth and she watched him curiously. It was a different sensation, his two fingers dancing over her cunt. Harder, colder. Exciting. As his tongue returned high on her cunt, one finger slipped inside her, cool and wet and searching. Gooseflesh prickled all over at the change and she rocked her hips instinctively. Soon, a second finger joined and curled slightly, pressing against her inner walls and causing her to scream. “Theon!”

She was wrecked then, her head fallen back in pleasure, her mouth open as he pumped inside her, stroking her insides firmly, struggling to keep his tongue steady on her pearl. Her sighs came in halting, staggering starts as she lost herself to the feeling. She looked down, watching him pleasure her, his eyes closed as he worked her. The pressure was soon growing, hotter, closing in all around her. She was going to burst, she was simply going to burst and then--

Ah, this is what they said of stars. She shuddered around his fingers, her body pulsing as if something had taken her over and wave after wave of pleasure rolled over her. She cried as he stroked her through her peak, soft, easy. Growing sensitive, she pushed him away and he looked up at her, hesitant. She could see the ask in his eyes. Was she pleased? Was she pleased with him? She pounced on him then, on the floor of her chamber, her wet cunt touching his bare skin as she kissed him soundly, deeply. _I can taste myself on his tongue. Oh gods._

She panted, stroking his hair, his face. Her legs felt weak, so sated she felt. He looked up at her, and smiled.

“...How… how can I please you?” she asked, so desperate to return the gesture, growing hot again at the thought of it.

He shook his head. “You don’t need to--”

“I want to. Will you let me?”

Theon licked his lips and she smiled at the lewdness, though he did not mean it so. He nodded slightly, but seemed lost to words. Carefully, uncertain, she leaned back in his lap and brushed her fingers against what was left of his cock, much as he did to her. His breath hitched and he blinked rapidly, his mouth parted. It occurred to her that he may not have been with anyone since he lost his manhood. At least, not of his own choice. _Ramsay had few limits in showing power over us. Myranda was no better._

She watched him carefully, kneading his neck, fingers gliding over fine hairs. She saw him struggle to stay present with her, as he had started to rock ever so slightly. Sansa whispered against his ear, “You’re safe here, with me. He’s dead. I killed him. I’ll never hurt you, Theon.”

Curiously, she glanced down and dipped her fingers into her own spill before she returned to stroke him, her fingers dipping lower and between his legs, past where the scar ended. She pressed there rhythmically, making small circles. His lips parted and his eyes slipped closed, a gasping sound escaping him as he shifted to give her more purchase. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back against the furs they landed upon. Sansa draped herself over him, kissing him slowly, mindfully passing over gaps where teeth should be. His hands ran over her sides. She braced her hand against her hip and rocked against him, giving her wrist and fingers strength to massage the skin between his legs. He whimpered and rocked his hips back against her.

“H-how… how do you--” he stuttered breathlessly as Sansa worked him, his eyes dark with want. He had one hand on her face and she slipped his thumb into her mouth, sucking softly. He closed his eyes, his head rolling back with a groan, his long neck exposed. “Sansa…”

She rolled her tongue round his skin before his hand disappeared between them. As she worked the skin before his only hole, he rubbed himself where his cock should be. Sansa smirked, seeing him lost in his own pleasure, that she knew something about it he did not. Theon Greyjoy, who had pleasured half the women of Winterfell, knew nothing of his own pleasure. She kissed him again, “The smallfolk are hiding in the walls of Winterfell, as well, including the whores. Do you think the Unsullied have never known another?”

As his breath continued to quicken, he smiled wide despite himself, realizing. “You… you asked them. For… you had planned this.”

She had, after he had pledged to defend Bran and she was so sure he would not see light of day. She had pardoned herself after their simple meal, pondering on the matter. She could have asked another eunuch, the Maester perhaps, or one of the many whores from Winter Town. In the end, she had found the Queen’s handmaiden, whom she had seen kiss the Unsullied commander. Their conversation was awkward; Missandei did not like Sansa much. Sansa understood. Missandei viewed Daenerys Stormborn as a savior and Sansa saw her as a threat. So she confessed her desire to this woman, whose skin and life were so different from her own, because they both loved men who had known torture. She guessed correctly that she could not be the only one who wanted to give as well as take. In a shadowed corner of the yard, Missandei shyly told her of how to please a man who had been cut. “ _Like a woman has her pearl, a man has his. But it is inside of him. This is how you must find it…”_

The smile on his face was worth the hushed conversation. She shifted to her heels and stood, encouraging him to follow. Dazed, he did not protest, only watched with curiosity as she seized her lamp and drenched her fingers in oil. She sat and looked at him. “Come to the bed.”

Looking away, he seemed to steel himself for the task, carefully putting one leg and then the other on the bed. At first, she thought he feared her plans, but the stiff way he lay made her recall that she had never seen Theon given a bed in his time as Reek. She had found him on the floor of the kennels, covered in bits of straw. Sansa laid behind him, pressing kisses into his shoulder and back. _Gods be good, his back. How many times was he whipped?_ “I want you here, it’s safe to be here on the bed with me. You’re Theon. Theon Greyjoy.”

“Theon…” he muttered unconsciously, and as her slicked fingers traveled down his hip to his behind, he drew his legs up to his chest. She sighed, grateful, as it was not any work at all to find his puckered entrance. She shored up her courage to touch him so intimately and before she could ask, he nodded his head just so.

She kissed the back of his neck and shoulder as she ran her oiled finger over his hole. As she caught the edge, she tugged gently. He sucked in a breath and fought to relax, allowing her to kiss him as her finger tip disappeared into him. She explored his insides, surprised to find it smooth and soft, not so unlike her own inner walls. Is this what he felt as he pleasured her? The thought made her cunny jump with excitement. As she felt a tight ring give way, her finger slipped further inside him until he had swallowed the whole thing. She moved it curiously, listening to his breath respond to each flick and press.

“S-Sansa…” he said with a shudder. “Fucking Drowned God, Sansa... Come here, please--”

She thought he meant to kiss her, but she was wrong. He shook his head and rolled onto his back, catching her hand and drawing her over him, but not so that he could capture her mouth with his own.

“Oh!” she cried at the sudden attention. “You meant to kiss me _there_.”

He laughed against her cunt, his nose tickling her skin as he pulled her hips down. _Gods…_ He had been gentle with her before, but now he dove and drank her like a man dying of thirst. She was practically sitting on his face, but she did not care as long as he did not _stop._ Trying to stomp down her own wanton cries, she returned her fingers to their work. He spread his legs, drawing up the knee for her to find his opening again. She quickly snatched the lamp from the side table and liberated the oil from its duty. _I practically sink into him, as he sank into me._

It was arousing beyond measure, both of them letting out small sounds of the throat, pleased sighs and holding on so tightly to the other. When she found herself with two fingers deep inside him, she curled them the way he had done her.

“My lady!” he gasped, breaking from his tongue’s wicked travels up her slit. “Don’t stop, please, whatever you do… just don’t stop.”

She reached back and shoved his head back to his own work. _You first,_ she laughed to herself. Whatever it was she pressed so fervently against, it was rough and filled the pads of her fingers. He bucked and whined, his tongue desperate against her cunny. He flicked his tongue against her nub and she worked this little spot within him, the air heavy with their want, so hot with their lusting thrusts, messy and uncaring how foolish it may look.

His body stilled, then shook, a strangled cry from his lips. She watched his front wet just so, clear and unlike the white Ramsay forced into her mouth. His head fell back against the bed and he panted. Sansa laughed, and suddenly he did, too. _I’ve exhausted him._ But he did not fail her, his hot mouth found her moments later and she felt herself preparing for another fall. A careful, constant pressure and Sansa cried out his name with her peak.

She squeezed her breasts and ran her fingertips over her nipples as she rode out the pleasure. Breathing deeply, she collapsed at his side. She fumbled for the rag by the bedside, cleaning her fingers and reaching down to clean him, too. The rest could wait.

Shortly thereafter, she was curled against him, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. She had never felt so warm and sated, so much like herself. There was no war in her chamber, no dead to fight, no death that would claim them. She wanted to speak, to tell him everything that was in her heart, but words would not come. Tears leaked on his skin and she apologized for it.

“It’s a taste of the ocean,” he murmured and kissed her hair. “Thank you, Sansa.”

Words still failed her, so she drew herself closer, holding him tightly, her leg wrapped around him. If she could not say the words, let him feel them through her skin.

“If the worst…”

“Shh,” she hushed him and stretched herself to kiss his lips softly. “I don’t want to think about tomorrow, or any day past. Now is all that matters. All good moments pass.”

Though his eyes were no less wet than her own, he smiled at her. “Then even the worst moment must pass, too. I will not fear it so.”

Sansa smiled against his chest and listened to his heart beat, not daring to think of the dead of night.


End file.
